“A neurotoxin,” Laurent clarified. “Such pools, far smaller, have been discovered in other archaeological sites. Back in 2014, mercury was found stored at the Temple of the Feathered Serpent in Mexico. The tomb of China’s first emperor is rumored to flow with rivers of the stuff.”
“We shouldn’t be down here,” Sharyn warned. “Not without ventilators and masks. We can only hope that the mercury here is less toxic. Maybe a safer amalgam of some sort.”
Archie covered his mouth, as if that would help. “But why did Saint-Germain, or whoever built this place, fill it with something so dangerous? Just to make it a trap?”
Laurent answered. “Maybe not only that. Mercury was always revered by alchemists. They viewed it as the First Matter, the metal from which all other metals arose. It’s why they believed mercury was so critical to their experiments with transmutation.”
“Turning lead into gold,” Sharyn said.
She retreated from the lone menorah, backdropped by its poisonous lake. To the left, a massive golden slab—three feet long and half as wide—stood like an altar, stacked with items of worship. Bowls, jars, dishes, lamps.
Laurent noted her attention. “It’s another holy relic from the Second Temple. The Table of Showbread. During the Sabbath, twelve loaves of bread would be laid out, representing the twelve tribes of Israel, in honor of the manna given to the Jews fleeing through the desert.”
Sharyn recognized the historical importance of such a discovery. Still, the bright gold only seemed to mock the dull candelabra in the alcove.
But was this done purposefully?
Archie pointed. “Do you think this is the same menorah stolen by the Romans? The holiest of holy Jewish relics?”
“It’s not gold,” Sharyn reminded him.
He nodded, accepting this.
“It’s lead,” she explained.
“What?”
She turned to Laurent. “I think I know how to get out of here.”
60
11:40 a.m.
Sharyn waited as Laurent fished through his pack. He had dropped it from his shoulder and searched for what she had asked of him.
Archie stood to the side. “Why do we need a lighter?”
She pointed to the leaden menorah, as if this were obvious. “To prove we understand.” She lifted the book still in her other hand and tapped her flashlight on its embossed cover. “Saint-Germain made this symbol his signature. Representing the four alchemical elements. Earth, fire, water, and air.”
Archie shrugged, clearly baffled.
Sharyn gritted her teeth, fighting through her pounding headache to explain. “Someone crafted a lead copy of the holiest menorah. Maybe the true one lies hidden elsewhere down here. Or it could be lost to history. I don’t know. But whoever fashioned this place—Saint-Germain or his network of savants—wanted us to understand the founding principles of alchemy.”
She waved across the space. “Lead, mercury, gold. They all tie together. The only thing we’re missing is what brings them all together.”
Laurent answered, pulling out a stick lighter. “Alchemical fire.”
She nodded, which only made her head pound worse.
We must get out of here.
Laurent crossed to the menorah and stood on his toes to peer at the tiny bowls that tipped each branch. “The cups are full of a black metallic slurry. Maybe another form of mercury. But there are no wicks.”
Sharyn glanced down to the book, remembering what impregnated its pages. “Maybe the contents are flammable.”
Laurent nodded, flicked his lighter, and sparked a flame. He reached out, while leaning his face away, and dabbed the fire into the bowl. The fuel ignited with a flash, flaring brightly.
“You were right,” Archie gasped.
